A NEW YEAR'S SCENE AND ITS LESSONS.

SOME years ago a number of persons had gathered together at the mouth of one of the large coal pits near Merthyr Tydvil. It was the last day of the year, and the shades of the winter's evening had begun to fall. Snow was on the ground, and a cold, cutting wind blew fierce upon them as they crowded round the large fire which had been kindled. Its lurid glare lighting up their faces, showed that all were filled with intense anxiety. News had come up from the pit that an explosion had taken place in one part of the workings. All who had fathers, husbands, brothers, or relations at work, gathered together at once to learn what they could, and wait for further news. Some sat calm and still on the blocks of wood which were lying about, others wrung their hands and cried, others crouched over the fire, staring at it, as if trying to read in its bright glow the fate of the loved ones below.

It was not long before those who had been at work below and who had escaped came up to the surface. These were at once led away by their joyful friends. But eight men and one boy were still in the pit, whether dead or alive no one could tell. "Who will volunteer to go down?" said a tall fine fellow, stepping out of the throng into the broad glare of the firelight which lit up his swarthy features. I, and I, and I, was the ready response, till nearly a dozen had joined him. Choosing six of them, the party started on their dangerous mission; the crowd around audibly invoking blessings upon them.

Crouching round the fire with the rest was a feeble woman, not so old in years as she was in appearance, for much trouble had fallen to her lot. Care and sorrow had

wrinkled her face, and bent her figure, and her white hair fringed the end of the shawl which some one had thrown over her shoulders, as she sat rocking herself by the fire. Her husband and four sons had all been colliers. One after another they had fallen victims to the many perils of the mine. We who enjoy the warm glow of the winter's fire seldom give a thought, as we stir it into a blaze, of the hard toil and many dangers our fellow men must undergo before the black shining lumps can be transferred from their cavernous hiding-place to our cellars and grates. There is the fearful gas which, oozing out of the crevices in the coal, collects rapidly and explodes the moment it

comes in contact with the flame; generating at the same time another agent for the destruction of life-the after or choke damp. Then water sometimes rushes in; or the earth, deprived of its support, sinks in, and either crushes all under it, or, stopping the current of air, suffocates those who are thus buried alive. All these and other dangers make the work of " winning coal" one of the hardest and most dangerous.

This widow, as she sat by the fire rocking herself to and fro, kept moaning, " My Davie, my Davie;" paying little attention to the kindly words which were directed to her. "Don't talk to me," she said, fiercely, to one who had been trying to cheer her up; "don't talk to me: isn't Davie my last? Oh, Davie, my blue-eyed boy! why did I let thee go down to the black work?" For some time she continued to pour forth such passionate expressions as these in the wailing tone peculiar to the Welsh when greatly excited.

The

Davie was eight years old, and his duty was to sit by the side of a trap-door and open and shut it as the trucks of coal were wheeled through. There are many lads employed at this, and dismal work it is. Scarce a gleam of light can ever reach them, and sometimes hours elapse between their communications with their fellows. miners, out of kindness, would give him bits of candle, by the light of which he would read whatever he could get hold of; generally, however, he carried the little Bible with him which he had obtained as a reward at the Sunday school.

As a general rule the colliers are a wild, rough set of men, but there are some who love God and attend his house. David's father had been one of these, and David tried to follow in his footsteps. A kind teacher had taken him by the hand, told him about the Saviour's love, and by her teaching had led him to see how sinful he was, and his great need of Jesus; and though but a child, he had given Him his heart, asked him to cleanse it from sin and make him a holy child.

As he sat reading in his place by the trap, he heard a loud roar. This was followed by a rush of wind that blew out his candle, and before he had time to think what was the matter, the pieces of coal came clattering down from over his head. Fortunately none fell on him, so that in a short time he was enabled with a trembling hand to relight his candle. Finding, on trying to raise his trap-door, that he

was unable to do so, he made his way, by the help of the dim light in his hand, over the fallen lumps, to see if he could escape by the other way; but alas! a large block had fallen and completely stopped up the narow passage.

He then listened eagerly for some sound, but none came, not even the faintest tap of the miner's pick. For a moment he was paralyzed with fear, for he knew that he was buried alive; then throwing himself on the ground, his childish feelings could no longer be restrained, and one long and passionate cry of "Mother! mother!" burst from his lips. Raising himself up he blew out his candle, for it was all he had, and then kneeling down, he prayed to God his Father in heaven, that he would save him. A simple, earnest prayer it must have been, the longing of a young heart to whom life is still sweet, and addressed to Him whose ear is ever ready to listen to the cry of his distressed children.

After he had prayed he felt calmer and happier. Still the minutes seemed long and the time weary. Should he ever get out? How long would it take for him to die? What would his mother do? were some of the thoughts that rushed through his mind as he sat in the darkness. At last he fell asleep, his little Bible in his hand, and his head resting on a block of coal for a pillow.

The weary watchers still sat around the pit's mouth, sadly watching the old year out. As they did so, the new year, with its pure white robes, drew near, and silently stepped into its place. Sounds of revelry, mingled with the nobler strain of the Christian psalm of hope and thankfulness, were wafted to their ears and then died away, only to be followed by the joyful peal from the bells of a church down in the valley, the echoes of which went flying far and wide through the night air. But there came no tidings of the missing ones.

The bitter wind now ceased to blow, and from behind the black clouds the moon burst out to light the first footsteps of the new year. Still the watchers crouched round the fire, staring into each others' faces with blank despairing looks, saying little, for their hearts were too full to speak.

About six o'clock on the new year's morning a cry went forth for more help. Down the shaft went twenty more stout pitmen, and hope revived in the hearts of the watchers.

"Have ye heard anything of my Davie ?" said the widow,

looking up imploringly in the face of one of the men who had just come up.

"Cheer up, mother, we shall come to him never fear,” was the kindly answer.

"Here they come; make ready at the top," was the joyful cry as day broke.

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Where's my Davie ?" was again the wail of the widow, as the others came up, and no Davie appeared. Two were blackened and charred corpses, the other six scarce able to walk or breathe.

"Bide a bit, bide a bit, mother," said two of the pitmen, as they led her away as tenderly as if she had been mother to their own rough selves.

As

The sun came out, the snow melted away, the mountains in the distance became blue and clear, and the grass once more showed its face on the hill side fresh and green. the sun rose towards the meridian the cry flew from mouth to mouth, "They've found him. They've got little Davie.” When Davie awoke from his sleep, it seemed to him that he had slept a long time. He lit his candle and then ate the remainder of some food he had brought down. The air in the confined space was getting hot and thick, and as he looked at the flame of his candle he saw that it was not burning so bright as usual. Opening his Bible, he began to read, "The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want;" and his head was still bending over the beloved book, as his candle went out, leaving him again in total darkness.

"Do I fear to die?" David asked of himself with a sob, as he thought of the position in which he was placed, and the apparent hopelessness of escape. "Do I fear to die?" He was but a child, and though he had heard often of death, and seen many a corpse brought up out of the pits, it was a terrible thing to look it in the face and ask himself "Am I afraid?" He knew that after death there came the judgment; but did he not love the Saviour, had he not been washed in his blood, and would not Jesus be ready to receive him and present him to the Father? That dear Jesus he knew would strengthen him now, and help him to bear the pangs of death. As he thought of this, his terror left him, and a heavenly peace seemed to steal over his heart.

Then he thought of his mother. God would take care of her. Still she would like a last word from her boy; so feeling for a piece of sharp coal, he scratched on the

leathern cover of his Bible in rude unshapen letters, "Dear mother, Jesus is here." Then the Bible fell from his hand, for the foul air had rendered him insensible and was stealing away his life.

Brawny arms and hands, meanwhile, were plying pickaxe and shovel, and stopped not to wipe the sweat from off the grimy brows of those whose hearts and strength were bent upon clearing a passage towards the place where little Davie lay. With what a will they worked! Their fears were high, for they knew full well the deadly effects of the confined air. At last the trap-door is reached and with one blow sent flying open! In a moment little Davie's inanimate form is in the arms of a collier, who is hurrying with all his strength to the foot of the shaft; in another, they are being slowly wound up to the top.

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My son, my son," shrieked the mother, as she rushed forward to kiss his face.

"Thank God, he lives," said the surgeon, as he gravely listened to the feeble beating of the boy's heart.

"Mother, dear mother," said the son, when he at last opened his eyes, flinging his arms round her neck as she bent over him.

Who can picture in words the joy that reigned in their hearts at the close of that new year's-day. A new year indeed. A new life. The sun seemed brighter, the earth and all around more beautiful than ever.

"Why was I spared?" was the question David asked of himself, as he stood and looked into an open grave in which were the coffins that contained the remains of his fellow workers of a few days before.

The answer came from his heart: "To love God more, to serve him better, and do his work as long as I live." By God's help he was enabled to do this. He gave his young heart afresh to God, and lived thenceforward a true disciple of the Lord Jesus. As he grew up to manhood he was enabled to rescue many a poor sinner from the abyss of ruin into which they had fallen, turning them from darkness to light, from Satan to God.

As we stand upon the threshold of another new year, watching the shadows of the old year fast disappear, should we not ask ourselves, Why has God spared us?

Death may have been really, though unconsciously, as near to us as it was to little David. We have escaped innumerable dangers from which multitudes have perished